Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [112]
“I might have known. The instincts of a gentleman cannot wholly be suppressed. Even with a liar—”
“It was for your own good. I tried to talk you out of it.”
Without replying, I got up and went to the car for my first aid kit.
“What next?” John inquired, still prone, as I buttoned him back into his clothes.
“I am going to take determined steps to leave this place within the next ten minutes,” I said. “By one means or another. God knows what Dieter will try next. In case you wonder why I am not rushing hysterically for my skis, or making ineffectual efforts to dig my car out of that drift, it is because I am being very calm and weighing all possible alternatives before I fly into action in my inimitable way. And also because for once—just once—for the first time in our acquaintance—I want the simple, unvarnished truth. In this case, it is not merely curiosity that moves me to inquire. I have a distinct and genuine need to know all the facts.”
“A persuasive argument,” said John, nodding. His eyes rolled down toward the hand I had planted firmly on his chest. “That is also a persuasive argument. All right. The simple truth is that I heard rumors about the Trojan gold as long ago as August. In fact, I was approached by a former acquaintance, who claimed that he expected to gain possession of it shortly and asked if I would be willing to assist in—er—marketing it. I told him I had no time to waste on what-ifs, and to let me know when he actually had it in his hands.
“Now what you must understand, Vicky, is that the contact was made through certain channels that allow the communicants to remain anonymous. I never saw this individual, whom I knew only by a code name—Hagen. He had been involved with a little, er, business deal I invested in several years ago. I knew he was connected with a museum and I was fairly sure he was male—though even that information was carefully guarded. I never tried to find out more; that’s part of the bizarre ethics of my profession, you know. One respects a colleague’s anonymity.
“I dismissed the matter then; I had other things to think about. When you told me of your involvement, I realized, with considerable relief, that you really had nothing to go on. It wasn’t until the end of the conversation that you casually mentioned your old academic acquaintances, several of whom had just happened to turn up, and an unpleasant suspicion entered my mind. If one of your friends was the individual I knew as Hagen, you could be in deep trouble. Ensuing development convinced me that my worst fears were justified. Hagen had failed to locate the treasure and was hoping you could do it for him. I decided to keep a brotherly eye on you—”
“And on the treasure.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Your doubts cut me to the quick. The attack on you and Schmidt surprised me; it didn’t fit my theory. Later investigation strongly suggested that a subordinate had gone off half-cocked and acted without authority. Freddy had already committed a major blunder by killing Hoffman before he could be persuaded to talk, and after he tried the same thing on you, Hagen realized Freddy’s stupidity and arrogance could ruin everything. So out went Freddy. In the meantime…God, what’s that noise? Avalanche?” He sat up with a start.
“Snowmobile, I think.” I rose and shielded my eyes against the dazzle of the slopes. “We’re about to be rescued.”
“Vicky.” His fingers, hard and urgent, closed around my wrist. “I withheld no relevant information. I wasn’t trying—”
“Right.” I freed my hand. “Sure.”
The snowplows had been out. The main road was fairly clear and the Marktplatz was walled with ten-foot-high banks. People who live in areas of heavy snowfall don’t let it upset their schedules; church was letting out when we arrived, and the Platz was filled with red-cheeked, cheerful people exchanging greetings and trying to keep the children from flinging themselves and their Christmas finery into the drifts. Sledges and sleighs mingled with cars in the parking area; the horses’ collars were twined with greenery